


And it Cuts You Like a Broken Knife

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Love is to Share Verse [4]
Category: Trinity (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Serial Killers, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet Dorian in a little café across from the Seine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And it Cuts You Like a Broken Knife

**AND IT CUTS YOU LIKE A BROKEN KNIFE**  
TRINITY  
Lancelot!Jonty/Galahad!Ross; Lancelot/Galahad/Dorian  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; spoilers for the series; serial killing; suicide; mentions of mutilation  
First: [Love is to Share Mine is for You](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/21491.html)  
Interlude: [There is An Empty Space Inside My Heart Where the Weeds Take Root](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/22041.html)  
Second: [Your Heart Will Break Whatever You Do](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/21525.html)

  
They meet Dorian in a little café across from the Seine. There, Lancelot grazes his fingertips across Galahad’s knuckles until Dorian can look at nothing else, his glassy eyes following the back and forth of Lancelot, following the way Lancelot touches Galahad and the soft familiarity there, and the way Lancelot watches Dorian’s mouth open, red and wet.

Dorian says, “I thought you were dead,” and he’s neither himself nor the façade he was at college, the pomp and fanfare and arrogance, the boy Jonty used to be, too. He holds his cane close to himself, his gold vest shimmering under the sun, and he opens his mouth and closes his mouth, and he wants to cry, but won’t let himself, would never let himself, and Lancelot looks at him through careful, cold eyes, and it’s nothing like it used to be, nothing like how it was when Lancelot was Jonty and Galahad was Ross.

Dorian says, “They told us you were both dead.”

Dorian says, “There was a boating accident along the lake. Maltravers spoke at the funeral.”

Galahad squeezes Lancelot’s hand at the mention of Maltravers, squeezes and holds tight, and Lancelot doesn’t let go. He can feel the itch to reach his gun where it sits on his back, can feel the itch to place it between Dorian’s eyes and make him beg for something he wouldn’t be able to promise, to push it in his mouth and pull it out again, slow, smooth.

Dorian doesn’t say that Jonty and Ross’ bodies were enveloped in shrouds and flowers and sat still and silent as everyone came by to touch their hands, stroke their hair, and grieve over them, but only because the caskets were never even opened. Lancelot hadn’t known Galahad then as he watched Jonty’s funeral through a gap in the closet door, hadn’t known who the other casket was made for, who the other boy was. Lancelot hadn’t known anything then, because Maltravers had taken him blindfolded back to the basement when he had found him, had held his hand with his wrinkled fingers and slapped him even before the blindfold was off again. Cooper had started crying, and Maltravers had smiled sweet and promised to never do it again if only he could be a very good boy.

Lancelot didn’t even know what a lie was called then, but he knew that Maltravers made them frequently enough.

And Dorian blinks, and it’s measured and makes him look slightly mental, and Lancelot swallows and wants to tell him everything, everything after Jonty died and left Lancelot this body to live in, everything after Maltravers taught him how to kill and made sure he would escape, wants to tell Dorian every secret and watch him understand, watch him realize, Lancelot’s hand on Dorian’s face and Dorian’s mouth on Lancelot’s gun, and Galahad crying in the next room, shallow and broken.

Lancelot wants to show Dorian what it feels like, and he wants Dorian to like it.

Lancelot says, “We’ve come back from the dead.”

And Dorian says, “How?”

And Lancelot smiles and says, “I’ll show you,” the itch in his fingers growing strong, growing wild.

***

They’ve rented a little flat with the money they’ve stolen. The money Lancelot has taken from bloody pockets and saved in a biscuit tin, wandering from town to small town, hitching rides from men twice their age, who smile and laugh and lick their lips and want something Lancelot will never give. It’s easy to kill, easy to conceal and live and breathe and keep on running, because Galahad has never looked so scared, and Lancelot doesn’t even remember the curl of his mouth anymore, the slow slip of a smile and the way Galahad would press his lips to Lancelot’s, and they would be happy.

Dorian doesn’t touch anything with his gloved hands, looking at the mess with scorn clear on his face, tapping his cane twice on the floor and saying, “Has your father disinherited you?”

And Lancelot forces himself to laugh just like Jonty would, and it sounds terrible coming from his throat, but Dorian doesn’t seem to notice, because he looks back at him and lifts one corner of his mouth, and suddenly it’s easy again, and Lancelot thinks maybe Jonty’s not so far away, maybe they’re more alike than he thinks. He says, “Haven’t seen him lately. I was thinking about giving him a ring, though.” And that’s the truth, but not for the same reasons Dorian thinks.

Galahad turns away, and Lancelot knows it’s because Ross had lost his own parents long before Galahad was even born, but he still cries at night sometimes when he thinks Lancelot is asleep, cries over the boy who will never have anyone, the boy who lost it all. Lancelot curls his fingers around Galahad’s shoulder as Dorian moves to inspect the kitchen.

“Are you still living at Trinity?” Lancelot asks.

Dorian pokes at something unmoving on the floor with his cane, and makes a face. “Not until autumn,” he says. “Father has requested I stay until classes begin.”

Lancelot raises an eyebrow, his fingers curling tighter on Galahad’s shoulder, his fingers moving to the junction of his neck, the long strip of skin, and Galahad closes his eyes at the touch, and Lancelot replaces his fingers with his mouth. He kisses Galahad above his shirt, soft, chaste, his tongue dabbing pink. “But he let you come to France?” He asks, his mouth moving its way up Galahad’s neck, just behind his ear, the soft skin there, smelling of lavender soap and the strong buzz of cologne.

Dorian peeks under the kettle cozy on the stove and says, “Well, I am on holiday, after all. He’s not expecting me back for another week at least.” He turns to Lancelot and swallows once, twice, at the scene there, but doesn’t look away. “Plenty of time to find some fun.”

And Lancelot smiles against Galahad’s hair, his nose brushing faint on his skin, nudging Galahad’s head forward. “We could help,” he says, and Galahad stills beneath him, but doesn’t say anything, and Lancelot runs his tongue along his cheek, wet, and Galahad hums low in his throat.

Dorian coughs, and Lancelot smiles wide on Galahad’s skin, and nobody says anything until Dorian moves closer, his cane forgotten in the kitchen and Lancelot’s fingers on the buttons of his vest.

***

It takes three hours to clean up Dorian’s blood from the floor. Lancelot moves the body to the tub and runs the water until it turns cold, and Galahad cries in the space between the sheets where, first Lancelot, and then Dorian had kissed him, and Dorian had called him Ross and called Lancelot Jonty, and they never corrected him, even as his tongue lapped at the insides of their mouths, even as he begged them to touch him, even as he pleaded, even as he tried to scream when Lancelot had slit his throat with the knife he keeps under his pillow.

The sheets are red and flaking, and Galahad doesn’t come out from under the duvet for hours, covered in blood and sweat and tracks of tears, and Lancelot brings him tea and sets the cup on the nightstand, making a circular milk stain on the wood, but Galahad never drinks it. Lancelot strips Dorian’s pockets and thumbs his way through the plastic cards and pulls out a picture from when Dorian was small, and he smiles and slips it into his pocket.

It wasn’t fun, really, he wants to tell himself.

It wasn’t more exciting than those men out on the road, then that boy at the public toilet, he wants to tell himself. It wasn’t exhilarating, wasn’t thrilling to run his fingers down Dorian’s chest and have them come back red and slick, leaving palm prints on the bed, leaving fingerprints all along the length of Dorian’s collarbone in one straight bloody line. It wasn’t invigorating to take Galahad’s hand and trace all the places Lancelot had been, the dirty skin and dark, wet hollow of Dorian’s mouth.

It wasn’t necessary, he wants to tell himself. But even then he’d know that he’d be lying.

And Galahad never asks Lancelot why he does it, why he had to kill Dorian before he could ask for help, so Lancelot never tells.

***

Dorian’s money gets them as far as Italy, where Lancelot meets a man who works a boat somewhere near Sirmione Castle, and Lancelot smiles sweet as he runs his fingers up the man’s shoulder and up the man’s neck and up to the junction of his jaw and slits his throat from ear to ear. The blood runs over his hands and drips off his elbows and stains the deck of the boat before it seeps into the water. The man’s last word was, “Please.”

They take the boat around and around the waterways and Lancelot shows Galahad all the places Jonty’s parents had taken him when he was young; all the places Jonty had stood and stared in wonder. They see paintings and cathedrals and steal fruit from baskets laid out on abbey steps and watch the birds fly spirals around the sea and Galahad laughs for the first time since France, and Lancelot smiles at the sound, and takes him by the hand when the stars start shimmering in the dark, and it’s small and nice and theirs.

They rent a room from an old blind woman who paints by touch and smell and she smiles with missing teeth at their voices and the first night, when Galahad presses close to Lancelot underneath the worn, tattered duvet, he holds Lancelot’s hand tight enough to break and makes him promise not to kill her. Lancelot whispers lies about the way he would do it nice and quick, the way he would pin her down when she was sleeping, or maybe crush up a bit of pills into her wine, but stops when Galahad starts to cry.

“I promise,” Lancelot says, and kisses Galahad’s cheeks, his nose, his mouth.

“I promise,” Lancelot says, and lets himself believe.

***

Dorian comes to him in his dreams.

Lancelot shoots him seventeen times before he gives up.

Dorian laughs and says, “I came back,” sliding a hand up Lancelot’s arm, his fingers cold and pale against Lancelot’s skin, lifeless. Lancelot shivers and Dorian laughs again.

“I guess you did show me,” he says, and presses his mouth close to Lancelot’s ear, and bites down hard.

Dorian’s mouth full of Lancelot’s blood, he says, “I guess you were telling the truth.” He leaves red kisses all the way down Lancelot’s neck, even as his teeth bite and catch, even as his fingers move down slow and cruel.

Dorian says, “I guess you don’t really know how to lie, after all.”

And Lancelot feels Dorian’s mouth on his even after he wakes up, Galahad pressed close and warm to his chest.

***

The old woman cooks them tortelli di zucca and bakes bread in a stone oven and serves them wine in chipped glasses. Galahad talks softly to her in Italian, the rolling cadence and his light laugh, and Lancelot only understands a few words here and there, but likes the way Galahad seems open and better than he has in days, the scar over his heart that bleeds sometimes if Lancelot’s not touching him, the scar that Galahad brushes with his fingertips in the mornings before he dresses, the scar that almost killed him if not for Cooper, if not for Lancelot.

They take the boat out most afternoons and find places to blend in with the crowds of tourists, and Lancelot teaches Galahad how to pickpocket like the orphan boys in the streets, sliding fingers into pockets and back out again, throwing the empty wallet shells into the sea. Galahad finds it surprisingly easy, targeting fat Americans and red-faced Germans, and Lancelot kisses him long and hard with each new prize.

They drink grappa with the stolen money and wander around the sloped alleyways and canals, and Galahad takes Lancelot’s hand and Lancelot presses close to him and they fuck against the stone wall of a café until the waitress comes out the back with a bin bag and yells at them in rapid Italian. Galahad laughs until he can’t breathe, and Lancelot grips his palm and runs.

***

Dorian tells him that it will never last.

Lancelot dreams of slicing him open from chin to belly button, dreams of pulling out his organs and laying them down beside him in a careful, methodical manner, dreams of uncurling his intestines, dreams of pulling apart his ribs.

Dorian chokes out blood even as Lancelot digs out his heart, and says, “He’ll find you, you know.”

With his wide smile and red teeth, Dorian says, “He knows you. He knows him.”

With his mouth gasping for air and his open throat gurgling out bubbles, Dorian sings, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

***

Lancelot buries the old woman in a deep grave just beyond the swell of her little house on the hill. He digs through the earth and lays her inside, moving her hair out of her face, sliding her hands together. He doesn’t remember ever being this careful with anybody besides Galahad, he doesn’t remember ever being this kind. He smashes the glass he used for her wine, scattering the pieces over the top of her grave like a marker, watching them shimmer in the sun.

He tells Galahad that she went to Rome to visit an old cousin, that she left them the house for the rest of the summer, that she wished them well. Lancelot kisses Galahad’s cheek in place of her lips, and Galahad wants to believe badly enough that he doesn’t question it.

He moves his mouth to Lancelot’s, and when they lay on the bed, Lancelot touches him as soft as he touched the old woman, as soft as he’s ever touched anyone, and neither of them move for hours.

Galahad licks his way up Lancelot’s hips and whispers Italian words into the dips and curves of his body, and Lancelot forgets how to breathe. In here, Lancelot forgets Jonty and Ross, forgets Maltravers, forgets Cooper, forgets who and when and where and why he feels the need to kill, the pull and push of something deep inside of him. In here, Lancelot only remembers Galahad.

***

Lancelot dreams of Dorian, but he’s not bloody and he’s not dead. He wears his Dandelion Club vest and he has his cane and he laughs at something Lancelot doesn’t hear and Lancelot knows this is a memory.

When Lancelot moves closer, Dorian turns to him and smiles. “You didn’t kill him, after all,” he says, and Lancelot knows he’s talking about Jonty.

Dorian laughs and laughs and says, “Look behind you.”

And Lancelot wakes up before he can.

***

Lancelot tells Galahad to pack before he’s even awake, a sleepy kiss on the shoulder, and a hand that slides around Lancelot’s waist. Lancelot tells Galahad to pack and to find all the money that they’ve stolen, and Galahad is so used to it that he doesn’t even ask why, fingering the old woman’s furniture with this soft sense of regret, but not sorrow. They take the last of the wine and some food for the road and they leave the house on two bicycles they find in the shed, the wheels turning with more than a year’s worth of rust, and Galahad tries to ride with no hands and laughs when he fails, but Lancelot keeps looking over his shoulder like he’s just missed something out of the corner of his eye.

They ride for hours in silence, down narrow little roads and around parked cars and over wooden bridges with tourists sailing in gondolas and they watch the people milling about the edges of the sea, and it’s beautiful, but Lancelot forgets what it’s like to care.

They finally pull over next to a pub and try all the cars outside until they find one unlocked, and Galahad watches Lancelot check the rearview twelve times before he asks what happened.

“Nothing,” Lancelot says, and Galahad threads his fingers through the hand not on the steering wheel, and sighs.

“I had a dream,” Lancelot whispers, but Galahad doesn’t laugh. He’s had as many nightmares and dreams as Ross used to when Ross was alive. Cooper used to write them down in his little red notebook and ask him how he felt about them and then shake his head when Galahad said something wrong. Near the end, Galahad used to lie and tell him that he never dreamt, and Cooper would smile when he picked up his pen.

“A bad dream?” Galahad asks.

“A bad dream,” Lancelot says, and keeps his eyes on the road.

***

In the end, Jonty doesn’t come for him like Lancelot thought he would.

Maltravers does, instead.

***

He finds them on the top of the Duomo di Milano, with their legs hanging over the spires. He says nothing.

Lancelot smiles wide, and his face and Galahad’s face are lit by the stars and the lights of the cathedral, Galahad’s tears shining, and there’s nothing that is surprising here, nothing that is not expected, but Galahad won’t stop crying for them, for Jonty, for Ross. Before they climbed up the stairs, Lancelot had whispered sweet in Galahad’s ear that this wasn’t goodbye, that they’d never leave each other. Jonty and Ross never left each other, Lancelot had whispered, and Galahad had started crying then, and Lancelot had held him close and kissed his face and it was perfect for just that one moment.

Maltravers doesn’t say anything, but Lancelot hears Dorian’s voice in his ears just before he grips Galahad’s hand tight and pulls him up. Just before Galahad looks at him and Lancelot looks back.

Just before they fly.


End file.
